


This will be

by Loftec



Series: Book & Movie AUs [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 1965, AU, GGE16, Greasers, M/M, Music, Socs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8990290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loftec/pseuds/Loftec
Summary: Prompt: 'The Outsiders’ AU in which Mickey is a greaser and Ian is a soc, and they have a forbidden, secret relationship. Doesn’t have to follow the movie/book plot line exactly, but maybe a loose interpretation. You can pick other characters to include. Explicit for sexual content. Warning for technical underage, minor character death and violence. See notes at the beginning of the fic for more detailed warning.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Violet_Jones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/gifts).



> Warning. Ian is 17 and Mickey is 18 in this fic, they doin' it. There's a death of a (non canon) minor character, and violence in relation to that.

Chicago, Illinois, 1965.  
End of summer.

 

*

 

”Ian!” his mother yells from downstairs, her shrill voice cutting into him like chalk on a board. She’s been supermom for little over a week now and Ian’s ashamed to realize that he almost prefers it when she’s curled up on the sofa all day, staring at the TV like it’s all she needs to live. ”Breakfast, sweetie!”

Ian sighs and checking his carefully combed down hair one last time in the small mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door, he pulls on his varsity jacket and runs down the stairs.

”Why are you making such an unholy ruckus?” his father complains before Ian’s even turned into the kitchen, barely looking up at his son over his newspaper when he does. ”Children should be seen, not heard.”

”Frank,” Monica warns her husband and smiles over at Ian when he stays quiet and moves through the kitchen, swiping a piece of cheese off the breakfast table and shoving it in his mouth as he ruffles Liam’s unruly hair, ”he’s not a child anymore, he’s a handsome young man. They need to take up a lot of space and make themselves heard! Attract the attention of all the pretty girls lining up for the chance to go out on a date, right hon?”

Ian bows his head when Frank tuts and shakes out his newspaper before he turns the page.

”He had a pretty girl,” he reminds her, still that edge to his voice that kinda throbs through the sore bruise on Ian’s chin, ”and what did he do? Screwed it up, is what. Absolutely useless.”

”Frank!” Monica gasps, almost dropping the pie she’s picking out of the oven. ”Don’t talk like that in front of the kids!”

”Please,” Frank scoffs and smiles at his three youngest, Carl and Debbie looking at him wide-eyed from across the table, Liam lost in his own little two-year-old world, ”these two are fine young things, aren’t you? You know how to behave in good company, don’t you?”

Ian turns away from the table when his siblings nod, Carl looking more confused than anything and Debbie looking like she can sense something’s off but probably won’t know what for a few years still. Ian hopes she’ll never know. He can’t wait to get out of this house. 

”Goin’ out,” he mumbles as he steps up to his mother and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek.

”Oh, okay!” Monica looks upset for a moment but then it splits into a slightly too wide smile. ”When will you be back? I’m making pie for dessert, see, it’s apple, your favorite!”

”Don’t know, mom,” Ian sighs, turning around in the doorway and slowly backing out into the hallway, shrugging at his mother’s painfully expectant face, ”Rog is back from his internship, supposed to celebrate. I might be late.”

”Roger Townsend,” Frank hums appreciatively from the table, just out of Ian’s sight, ”now there’s a young man a father could be proud of.”

Ian frowns and shoves his hands down the pockets of his jacket, and avoiding Monica’s relentlessly sparkling eyes he shakes his head and turns away from the kitchen, walking out the door to his mother’s cheerful; ”Goodbye, sweetie!”

He’s standing on the curb outside his house, thinking about lighting up a cigarette even with the considerable risk of getting caught if his mother decides to look out the kitchen window, when a navy blue mustang pulls up and parks right in front of him, motor rumbling and breaks screeching, the girls perched on the backseat of the convertible swaying and giggling.

”The second Gallagher,” Roger announces with a wolfish smile, looking up at Ian from the driver’s seat, ”get in.”

Ian eyes the car and thinks he might have to squeeze in between Mary-Lou and Lucy in the back, when Roger points over his shoulder with his thumb.

”Get in the back,” he orders Dave, who seems a little too comfortable in the front seat to really like this rearrangement, taking a second too long for Roger’s liking to react, ”now!”

Dave scoots up as though he’s about to climb his way back when Roger takes him by the pressed collar and pulls him down, pushing him towards the door.

”Jesus, watch the leather!” he scolds. ”It’s a brand new car, you animal.”

Ian stands back while Dave gets the passenger door open so he can stand up and fold the seat forward and carefully climb in the back to squeeze in between the two relentlessly giggling girls. The tool of their skirts spills over on his lap when he grins and settles in, stretching his arms out behind the girls, along the backs of their seats. Pulling the front seat back in place, Ian sits down and barely has time to close the door before Roger revs the engine and takes off in a violent jerk Ian isn’t entirely certain was intentional.

”So, Lip’s really gone, huh?” Roger says when he immediately has to stop for a red light, looking sidewise at Ian.

”Yeah,” Ian nods, ”two weeks.”

”Seems early,” Roger comments, always suspicious, ”school doesn’t even start until next week.”

Ian shrugs, he’s had this conversation with every single friend him and his brother have in common from school, which is pretty much all of them. Ian always kinda saw them as _Lip’s friends_ , anyway, and he’s pretty sure most of them still think of him as _Lip’s brother_.

”Orientation and shit,” he explains with a vague gesture of a hand, he’s not entirely sure what it is Lip’s doing in his new university life, ”they opened up the dorms so he moved in.”

”Listen,” Roger says and changes his grip on the wheel, slowing down the car some as they cruise down a straight stretch, ”think it’s time you step up, you know? Lip’s leaving some pretty large shoes to fill, but I think you might just have what it takes.”

”Yeah?” Ian doubts it, but he thinks his reticence probably sounds more like excitement to Roger when the guy grins and nods.

”I saw you at the spring brawl, Gallagher,” he says, something like pride in his voice, ”the way you got in Mickey’s face, man, it was priceless. He looked like he was about to pop!”

”Yeah,” Ian huffs and looks out his side of the car, at the buildings slowly shifting from residential to shops and restaurants as they turn onto a main street.

”I mean, he whopped your ass,” Roger continues, making Ian shake his head in disagreement and the girls giggle behind them, ”but still, I’m impressed.”

Ian shrugs and feels his lips quirk up in a crooked, pleased smirk, turning away to look out his rolled down window. He could probably do just fine without Roger’s opinion on anything, these days, but the recognition still hits a nerve and he can’t help feeling good about it. He turns back to look at Roger when the car stops at another red light, and he frowns and juts his chin out a little when he finds him staring back at him, like he’s trying to make up his mind about something.

”Someone got you good, didn’t they?” he says and points towards Ian’s stubborn chin, apparently caring more about the angry yellowing, purple bruise than Ian’s standoffish attitude. ”Greaser?”

He says the word like it’s poison, like he’d spit if they weren’t in his new, prized car.

”Was it Mickey?” he continues to press, reaching out as though to touch Ian’s chin and get a better look at the bruise, Ian jerking his head back and out of reach.

”Jesus,” Ian huffs and shifts in his seat, struggling against the urge to shake him off when Roger rests a hand on his shoulder and looks ahead as he starts driving again, a couple of cars behind them already honking for them to get going, ”Mickey’s been locked up for months, Rog, how the hell would that work?”

”Don’t know, G,” Roger drawls, ”maybe you’d managed to get punched since yesterday, wouldn’t surprise me.”

Ian’s heart rate fucking spikes, his neck prickling and brows drawing together into a confused frown.

”They-,” he starts and stops, unwilling to disclose that he’s kept tabs on the greaser’s release date by asking if they released him early, ”Mickey’s out?”

”Yeah,” Roger says and glances sideways when Ian tries to hide the way his throat works around a whole bunch of unspoken questions, ”you didn’t know that?”

Ian frowns, bowing his head a little as he tries to look like he doesn’t care by shrugging his shoulders. ”No.”

”Hey,” Roger adjusts his grip of the wheel and raises a quick eyebrow at Ian when he sits back and turns his face to him, ”if he did beat you up again, we need to strike back, send him a message about what happens to dogs who bite their masters.”

Pursing his lips together, Ian tries his usual trick of selective mutism to get out of situations and questions he doesn’t want to answer. But Roger doesn’t say anything either, facing away from Ian with a left turn and obviously waiting for a straight answer. 

Ian realizes suddenly that he’s somehow been informally promoted to right-hand-man when Lip went away and left Roger to lead. He thinks he’s infinitely more scared of this prospect than of Mickey being out and trying to kill him again.

”I fell,” Ian tells him what he’s told everyone else concerned enough to ask, ”alright? Hit my face on the fucking floor, happy?”

”You’re a champ!” Roger laughs, the murderous glint in his eyes gone in a second as he tries to ruffle Ian’s carefully combed hair, the whole car swerving with it for a second before he returns both hands to the wheel. ”Hope you lied through your teeth when you told your girl about it, Gallagher, bad enough she’s gotta kiss your ugly mug, now she’s gotta do it knowing you’ve got the physical coordination of a toddler.”

Ian juts out his chin and holds his tongue, shaking his head in defeat when their backseat audience practically shakes the whole interior of the car in quiet anticipation.

”Broke up,” he mutters, rolling his eyes when Roger throws him an incredulous look, ”last week.”

”Em ditched you?” Roger sounds more amused than concerned, not that Ian expected any great sympathy from the guy.

”Nah, I broke it off,” Ian says and plasters on a derisive smirk, ”two years and she still wouldn’t put out, not gonna waste bein’ a senior on chasing her frigid skirt around, am I?”

”Solid thinking,” Roger agrees with a grin, eyebrows shooting up when there’s a distinct scoff from the back, ”you got something to say, ladies?”

Ian glances over his shoulder in time to see Lucy leaning forward with a knowing smirk. ”It’s not what I heard, that’s all.”

”And what do you think you heard?” Roger asks, even Ian feeling put down by his condescending tone and derisive look, even though it’s aimed directly at Lucy through the rear view mirror.

”Well, Em told us _she_ broke it off with _you_ ,” she says, subtly ignoring Roger and looking straight at Ian while she speaks, ”said she didn’t want to waste _her_ senior year on someone with… faulty equipment.”

”Lying little bitch,” Roger decides, the words still somehow harsh and ugly even dressed up in his smooth voice, ”she ought to know her place, someone should teach her a lesson about speaking out of turn.”

Lucy sits back in a huff and crosses her arms, glaring sideways at Dave who’s howling with laughter. Up until last week Ian would have stuck up for his girl, like he has done for over two years now. But he’s no longer expected to defend her honor and it’s oddly relieving, even though holding his tongue leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He tries to never talk about girls with Roger, avoiding certain topics all together usually makes being around him and listening to his bullshit a lot more bearable.

He talks shit, but Ian always thought he was a good guy underneath all that. Deserved a chance, same as everyone else. A long time ago, when Ian was fourteen, he’d even been crushing on Roger. He’d sucked his dick once at a party, locked away in someone’s bedroom and Roger’s hands on his head the whole time, keeping it bent and working until he was spent. Roger drank too much and blacked out, but Ian caught feelings that shielded him from a lot of harsh truths about Lip’s best friend, for years to come.

Ian’s almost annoyed about it, but the shields have gone down and his ability to tolerate Roger’s shit has drastically dwindled these past six months. And now, after getting a whole summer’s reprieve from the guy while Roger spent the break interning with his stockbroker dad in the city, Ian’s patience seems to have taken the opportunity to plummet all the way down to a flat zero.

But he’s got a whole year left at his school, and things kinda just are the way they are, not much he can do about that. So he shrugs again and hopes Roger interprets his silence as heartbreak, or whatever, and moves on.

”Senior year, man,” he says, a wide grin smoothing out his mean scowl, ”why settle for one flavor when you can have your pick of the whole shop?”

”Yeah,” Ian nods, ignoring the nervous churning in his gut and the intensified giggling from the back as they turn into a gas station parking lot, ”sure.”

They amble out of the car once Roger cuts the engine, Dave looking hell of a lot more pleased with his bump down their social ladder when Mary-Lou and Lucy flank him, hooking their arms in his and talking eagerly about something as they walk ahead towards the shop.

Ian lags behind and digs out a cigarette from his jacket, stopping outside the shop to light it up and wait there for the others to come back out, shaking his head when Roger turns around to ask him if he wants a coke.

He’s busy thinking about the last time he bumped heads with Mickey when the devil himself turns a corner, trailing a small pack of greasers. Ian sucks on his cigarette and throws it away, squinting at the slowly approaching group through a cloud of white smoke. He probably should go inside and find Roger, and strength in numbers, but something keeps his feet stuck firmly to the ground, his nerves strangely calm as Mickey lands his sharp eyes on him and his smirk takes a moment to turn mean.

”Soc!” one of the greasers howl, grinning at Ian as they come closer.

”Gallagher,” Mickey greets him, tongue dipping out to wipe at his bust up lip before he bares his teeth in a dangerous grin and stops only a few feet from Ian, ”been enjoying your time off from gettin’ beat up?”

His gaze dips for a second to Ian’s bruise, eyebrows flying high as he looks back up and shifts his stance. He looks like he’s been bulking up while locked away, muscles straining against the rolled up sleeves of his white, greasy t-shirt.

”Been alright,” Ian shrugs, shoving his hands down the pockets of his jacket and tilting his head back so he can study Mickey through half-lidded eyes, ”and you? Feelin’ reformed at all?”

”Mmh,” Mickey hums and cocks his head, ”thinkin’ about ways to give back to society, you know? For their kindness towards me and mine. Maybe start by exterminating some of the vermin runnin’ around this place.”

”Plenty of you greaser hoods to choose from,” Ian challenges, making Mickey’s pack hiss and chuckle behind their leader.

Mickey looks like he’s ready to dish out something real good when the glass doors suddenly burst open next to Ian and Roger steps out, Dave trailing behind him with the girls.

”Step down, Mickey,” Roger growls, walking straight up to the greaser and getting in his face. Ian pulls out his hands from his pockets and squares his shoulders. He has a good handle on Mickey, he knows how far he can push him. Roger doesn’t have the same kinda tactful approach to anything, least of all to greasers.

”Or what?” Mickey says with his devil grin, stepping forward and forcing his at least head taller opponent back a few feet.

”I’ll make you,” Roger insists, his voice still steady and sure even while Mickey’s aggressive energy’s putting everyone else around on edge, the greasers looking just as ready to jump in as Ian.

”Like to see you try, soc,” Mickey says and drops his nasty grin, purposefully cracking his inked knuckles. Rumor is he got them done his first stint in jail, but Ian knows that’s just bull that Mickey’s made sure to spread around himself in order to cover for the truth, whatever it might be.

”You wanna rumble?” Roger jumps from altercation all out brawl in two seconds, throwing his arms out in challenge, ”let’s rumble, hood!”

Ian reacts the split second he sees Mickey’s hand clamp down on Roger’s neck, a first move for the advantage and sure to be followed by a firm knee in the gut or forehead to the nose. He steps forward and grabbing at Roger’s shoulder he pulls him back and out of Mickey’s grip, quickly maneuvering himself in front of his buddy and holding him back with a stretched out arm.

”Not here, Mickey,” one of the greasers hiss eagerly, making Ian look up and see two of them holding on to Mickey’s struggling shoulders, keeping him in place.

”Midnight,” Roger throws out, shoving Ian aside and practically bouncing with agitation, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand like he expects it to already be bloodied, ”rough.”

Mickey spits and shakes his buddies off himself, taking a step back and throwing out his arms.

”You want rough?” he threatens, bringing out that edge to his voice that can make just about anyone step away from him, that has had teachers and parents counting the days until he eventually finds himself locked up or gunned down by the fuzz, ”I’ma give you rough.”

”Jesus,” Ian mutters, pulling a hand through his hair and glancing at the side of Roger’s calm face. Underneath the blue eyes and fair skin, his perfectly cut blond hair and tailored clothes, Ian thinks he still somehow manages to look more dangerous than Mickey ever has. It’s a different kind of dangerous, a cold, calculated kind of dangerous that exists only to push others down and to only do it for fun, for a lack of anything better to do. A fair fight skin to skin is one thing, going rough is something else entirely. Anything can happen, people get seriously hurt. Ian likes a good rumble same as any other guy, but he’s starting to suspect that this blood feud between Mickey and Roger won’t stop until one of them ends up dead. 

Ian tries to catch Mickey’s gaze, but Mickey seems to have completely forgotten his presence; forgoing their earlier petty squabble in order to bump chests with the real enemy. He points menacingly at Roger as he starts backing away, more or less pulled away by his greaser buddies when a couple of cars turn into the parking lot.

”Midnight,” he confirms, shouting over his shoulder as he turns and walks away, ”you’re a dead man, Townsend!”

”Hood scum of the earth,” Roger grits out, smiling at a little old lady scowling at them as she beelines past them and into the shop. Ian thinks for a second that she probably looks at them and sees no difference between their social club and Mickey’s greaser gang.

It’s probably true, it’s been on his mind for a while. Greasers and socs, they’ve got it rough all over.

 

**

 

Mickey lets his brothers pull him away from the oncoming fight, dragging his feet and falling behind as they start joking around again, forgetting all about why they’d been heading for the gas station in the first place and naturally ambling towards their house. It’s almost become a greaser den since their old man went away again, and Mandy moved out to live with their Aunt Rande. It’s good, Mandy was helpful to have around, she’d cook and clean without too much pressure from her brothers, but Mickey always kinda worried about having her in the house when it got flooded with greasers. They gang is his family, too, in many ways better than his own dead and deadbeat parents ever were, but they’re tough and in their eyes Mandy’s just another greaser broad. _Easy_.

Mickey always felt like she was better than all that, better than what any of them got dealt. Mickey and his brothers aren’t better, they were born to be greasers and struggle day to day with what they’ve got, but she _is_. Not that he would ever tell her any of this, but it’s still true.

Avoiding his roughhousing brothers in the living room, Mickey grabs a beer from the kitchen and escapes to his bedroom, closing the door behind himself. He’s still feeling on edge, pacing the length and breadth of his room as he tips back the beer and drinks it like it’s going out of style. He sits down on his bed and lights up a smoke, it does nothing, his hands are trembling.

He can’t stand it, the room feels like a cage. He takes the cigarette from his lips, the beer bottle filling with smoke as he empties it and throws it into a corner of the room, the glass cushioned by a pile of laundry. He gives in, he knew he would, he always wants to give in.

Putting the cigarette back to his lips he rolls the battered pack up in his sleeve and leans over to pull open a drawer under the bedside table, fishing out a rusty key on a tied up piece of twine. He threads the twine over his head and tucks the key down his t-shirt, hesitating for a short moment before grabbing his half-empty tube of K-Y and shoving it down his back pocket as he gets up and walks out the room.

”Where you headin’, Mickey?” Iggy shouts after him, but doesn’t seem to care when Mickey ignores him, quickly passing through the house and out the door.

There’s a whole block of run down, abandoned apartment buildings just ten minutes away from his house, trashed and grown over since the war, since before Mickey was born. They never got finished, the remains of a world plummeting into another crisis before it properly had gotten past the last one. At the very end of the lot, one of the buildings looks completely impenetrable from the outside, windows boarded up on the ground floor and doors bolted and hidden behind large sheets of rusted metal and rotten wooden beams. The back basement door used to be open, but now it’s padlocked and grown over by the wild shrubbery under the elevated train tracks running mere feet behind it.

Mickey fends his way through the bushes and cringing the key off his neck he unlocks the padlock, hanging it on a rusty nail just inside the door. The interior of the building is completely hollow and the top floor is just a roof with iron rods sticking out of the concrete structure, but the five existing floors are steady enough and there’s a stone staircase leading all the way up through the whole building. Mickey climbs it to the last floor before the makeshift roof and stands at the top of the stairs for a while, scanning the wide open space that’s only cut off by evenly spaced support pillars that were supposed to have connected the walls at some point. He walks through it, looking up through the occasional hole in the ceiling at the bright blue sky, and over to the far corner of the building where there’s an old mattress laid out on top of some wood pallets. It’s not as nasty as it looks, he would know ’cause he’s the one who dragged it up four flights of stairs, and all the way from his house at the crack of dawn one Sunday in early spring. It used to be Mandy’s and they were gonna throw it out anyway.

He’s pretty sure he never brought the blankets or the fucking throw pillows though, or the banged up but still expensive-looking portable record player, or the short stack of records leaning against the wall behind it. 

Crouching down, he flips through the records trying to be annoyed but not really successful at staving off the easy smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He especially didn’t bring The fucking Beatles. He picks up the record and thumbs at the edge of it while he takes in the four guys dressed in blue, making some kinda semaphore signals with their arms, only to guiltily drop it back down when he hears a faint sound from behind him.

Standing up he walks around one of the concrete pillars and across the wide space, eyes fixed on Ian’s still form the entire time, standing at the top of the stairs and staring back at him. His stance tense but casual and his brows drawn together in slight confusion, or anger, Ian says nothing as Mickey makes his slow approach, stopping with some ten feet still to go. Mickey dips his gaze to take in the large yellowed bruise blooming on the side of Ian’s chin, across his jawline and all the way down his neck.

He rubs his thumb over the corner of his mouth and then gestures vaguely towards Ian. ”Did he do that?”

Ian huffs and shrugs, his lips quirking up in a quick smile.

”I fell,” he bullshits, not looking Mickey in the eye until after he’s said it, his cocksure attitude slipping a little, voice dropping, ”you know he did.”

”Jesus, fuck,” Mickey spits and feels like he’s gonna be sick, turning away from Ian in a tight circle before he spins back and points at him, ”I’ma kill him, gonna _fucking_ kill him.”

Terry’s been slapping Mickey around for as long as he can remember, but Terry was always a shit father, no one ever expected him to be anything else. Frank has everything a man could ask for; money, house, car, a beautiful wife and a whole hoard of healthy children. Terry always used to slap Mickey around but he rarely did anything bad enough to bruise, unless he was real drunk and his kids weren’t quick enough to get away. But Frank wasn’t out to mindlessly dish out violence or raise anyone with his tough love, he specifically targeted Ian and he quietly _terrorized_ him, making sure to get away with it too after the fact, the whole family smiling and lying about Ian falling over or getting hurt during his baseball practice. It’s not right, it’s cowardly and disgusting and plain fucking _wrong_.

”No,” Ian says with a small smirk and a barely there shake of his head, ”no, you won’t.”

”He hits you like that again,” Mickey argues, eyebrows flying high and his hand still stretched out towards Ian, turning his palm out when Ian steps closer, stopping when Mickey takes a step back, ”I will kill him.”

”No, you won’t,” Ian repeats and now the bastard’s smiling, he can probably see Mickey’s defenses crumbling.

”You don’t know,” Mickey mutters, but lowers his hand and stands still when Ian carefully steps towards him again, ”piece of shit doesn’t deserve the life he’s got, ’d be doing everyone a fucking favor, including you.”

”You won’t,” Ian decides, so close now Mickey thinks the warm summer breeze over the goosebumps running up his forearms might both smell and feel like Ian.

”Why not?” Mickey asks, scowling up at Ian’s calmly smirking face.

”’Cause if you get caught,” Ian mumbles and licks his lips, eyes almost closing as he dips his gaze for a second before returning it to stare straight into Mickey’s, grey and green and blue, shifting like a summer sky, ”I might not wait for you next time.”

Mickey scoffs, but can’t hide the way he shivers when Ian touches his fingertips just above his elbow, slowly caressing the skin up his arm.

”Like fuck you wouldn’t,” Mickey says and grins when Ian cocks his head to the side and takes half a step closer, ”that a threat?”

Ian takes another step and stops when he’s toe to toe with Mickey, Ian’s warm breath fanning over his face as Mickey has to tilt his head back a little to hold on to their lingering eye contact. Ian shakes his head, Adam’s apple bobbing when he purses his lips and swallows, gaze dipping down for a split second and then up again.

Mickey doesn’t remember him being this tall, his shoulders this broad. But then he thinks he doesn’t remember his eyes being so magnetic or his lips so interesting. Four months in the reformatory and Mickey probably didn’t go one single day without thinking about Ian, it’s not right and he didn’t want to do it, but he did. He can’t remember why he wouldn’t, now. Seems perfectly reasonable to think about soft skin over hard muscles when they’re close enough to touch, to think of searching, revealing eyes when they’re staring right into you, to think of thin, pink lips when all they gotta do is sway closer, and they’d be kissing.

”Do it,” he mutters, following Ian’s gaze when it dips down again, meeting it when it returns with a question, ”do it.”

Ian closes his eyes and inching his face forward he stops right when Mickey imagines he can feel him but they’re not yet touching, Mickey’s lips falling open around a shaky exhale that bounces off Ian’s skin and prickles up Mickey’s nose. It smells of stale beer and ash, and Mickey is about to step back when Ian suddenly falls forward, his parted lips closing over Mickey’s and his wet tongue immediately pushing inside. 

He thinks he’s missed this thrill of fear and arousal most of all, more than freedom itself, thrumming through him by the press of Ian’s rough lips softly melding against him, his overgrown hand brushing up his arm and neck to gently touch his jaw and curl his fingers around the back of his neck, carefully avoiding his hair. That comes later, when Mickey’s too gone to bitch about it and Ian feels free to run his fingers through it and smear the pomade down Mickey’s back, massaging his skin as he’s pushing inside him. 

They stagger through the building, lips and bodies locked together, until Mickey feels his heel hit against the pallet on the floor and he grins as he lets go of Ian long enough to pull off his own t-shirt, Ian’s hands immediately going for his belt, unbuckling it and unzipping Mickey’s jeans enough to get his hand down his underwear and feel him out, rub along the underside on his dick and pull it out. Mickey throws his t-shirt aside and pulls Ian back in by his varsity jacket, thrusting eagerly into his hand and fitting their lips back together as he’s pushing Ian’s jacket off his shoulders and lets it drop. 

”What do you want?” Ian mumbles, resting their foreheads together to move their lips apart just enough to speak. Mickey doesn’t say it, but he grins against Ian’s lips and moves his whole body closer as he takes Ian’s hands away from his open fly and hard dick, guiding them around to his ass.

Ian huffs, the sound turning into a muffled groan when Mickey rolls against him and covers his mouth with his own, jaw dropping and tongues pushing. Ian digs his long fingers into the coarse jeans fabric, one hand dipping in under Mickey’s pants to grab at soft skin instead, but the other getting sidetracked by the tube still stuck down Mickey’s back pocket. He grins into the kiss and pulls the tube out, smiling wide when Mickey pushes him back a step and drops his pants, kicking them off to the side with his boots and the rest of his shit until he’s naked and burning under Ian’s heavy gaze.

Mickey picks up his eyebrows and grins back at him, before he turns around and gets on his knees on the makeshift bed, dropping down on all fours and crawling up on the mattress. He hears the sound of Ian’s belt unbuckling and his pants rustling before they’re kicked to the side too, and the mattress dips with Ian’s weight, his dick hard and heavy as it fits along Mickey’s crack, sliding lazily between his asscheeks as Ian grabs him by the hips and connects them with a couple of playful thrusts.

Mickey rests down on his elbows and sticks his ass out, settling in to let Ian take care of business, take care of him. His fingers are warm and steady, slicked up by the K-Y and taking their time pushing inside Mickey’s hole, Mickey soon shoving back to egg him on and feel the warm palm of Ian’s hand over his perineum as his fingers slide in to the knuckles, nudging at something pulsating inside.

He doesn’t have to ask for it, Ian’s never been much for the preamble anyway, leaving Mickey’s hole to clench around nothing as he pulls his fingers out and disappears, reappearing with the pressure of something much larger stretching Mickey out. Mickey groans and grabs on to the blankets, knuckles going white and the cut on his lip splitting back open when he forgets himself and bites down on it, the metallic taste of blood on the tip of his tongue as he tries to relax under the overwhelming feel of Ian inching inside.

He’s big, and they haven’t done this in a while. Mickey likes the stretch, he likes the slight burn and the pressure against his inner walls, he likes the pain sliding into pleasure. But it’s not really happening this time, Ian is hard and gentle with him, hands saying one thing and his hips another, but suddenly it’s not enough. Ian’s movements aren’t as assured as they were before Mickey got locked up, when they started doing this thing and quick and hard was all that mattered to them both, and Mickey finds himself annoyingly distracted by a new kind of want.

”Jesus, Gallagher,” he grunts and crawls out of Ian’s firm grip, his dick slipping out, ”you forget how to do this?”

Ian glares at him when Mickey sits up and turns around enough to finally see him again, but his annoyance is equally matched with confusion and hurt. Mickey smirks and gestures towards the bed.

”Lie down,” he says, a distinct flutter in his gut when Ian does what he says without a second’s hesitation, flopping down on his back and resting his head on one hand, looking up at Mickey expectantly, ”wanna try something.”

He hadn’t meant to say that at all, but the way Ian’s frown instantly smoothes out when he does puts him at ease. He’s allowed, he’s allowed to want things and ask for them. Ian likes giving him what he wants. Mickey walks over to him on his knees and straddles him quickly, bracing his hands on Ian’s chest and licking his lips when he gets to look down at Ian’s face, see his slight smile and his widened eyes as his hands find their way to Mickey’s hips and down his ass.

Reaching behind himself, Mickey sits back and inches himself closer to Ian’s dick as he holds it up and blindly puts it to his hole, his breath fucking hitching when he feels the head of it nudging inside with his own slight movement. He sits down on it, grabbing on to Ian’s knees when he feels them bend, his thighs pressing against Mickey’s ass and back, and using them for leverage he arches back and closes his eyes, pulling himself up and then letting himself sink back down.

”Fuck, Mick,” he hears Ian gasp and he can’t help himself, he rolls his hips and feels his jaw hang slack with the great push and slide inside him as he cracks his eyes open and glances down at Ian. He thinks he’s never seen him so beyond control before, face open and eyes stuck on Mickey, intently following his every move. ”Not gonna last like this.”

Mickey smirks and sits down on him, throwing his head back with a groan when he hits the spot and stays there, gyrating down on it and pushing his ass into Ian’s bony hips.

Ian’s still staring at Mickey when he grabs him and holds him up, jacking his hips up and stabbing into Mickey until they’re both gasping for breath and Ian’s filling him up, hips stuttering and pushing Mickey up on his knees he’s so eager to sheathe himself inside him completely. Mickey follows him when Ian collapses down on the mattress, stroking himself roughly and trying to hold on to Ian’s still hard dick until he’s managed to get himself to come. But Ian’s got other ideas, barely taking a second to catch his breath before he grabs Mickey by the thighs and ass and shuffles himself down under him, until Mickey can sink the tip of his dick into Ian’s mouth, pushing it between his reddened lips and feel his tongue lap at him.

He doesn’t go too deep, but bracing his hands on the bed above Ian’s head he carefully fucks into his warm mouth, groaning and really feeling ready to spill when his stretched hole is filled back up with the gentle press of Ian’s fingers, finding that spot right away and working it, seed dripping out around his probing digits.

”Yeah, right there,” Mickey tells him and screws up his eyes when Ian moans around the shallow thrust of his cock, his soft tongue flattened over it and lapping at the slit when it starts to leak and spurt.

Mickey would be gone by now, but he’s not. He’s naked and tangled up with Ian who’s looking him in the eyes and absently playing with the hairs on the back of his neck, gently massaging the slight grease from his quiff into his skin.

”Liked that,” Ian mumbles and grins when Mickey huffs, ”a lot.”

”I was great,” Mickey decides to evaluate them individually, for fairness’ sake, ”you… gee, don’t know. Guess you did okay.”

”Fuck you,” Ian whispers, his easy smile and low voice anything but menacing as he inches forward and barely touches their lips together while he speaks, ”all I gotta do is show up and you’re good, think that was made real clear just now.”

”That don’t mean I wouldn’t-,” Mickey starts, momentarily distracted by the way Ian fits their lips together and the tip of his tongue’s pressing gently over the cut on his bottom lip, ”wouldn’t appreciate a little more effort.”

Ian grins against him and rubbing their noses together one last time, he slips away and gets off the bed, despite Mickey’s grumbling protests.

”Decorated our place, didn’t I?” he says and turns around to hold out his arms in a wide gesture, smirking when Mickey shuffles to his back and rests his head on his hands, eyebrows in an unimpressed arch. ”Blankets, pillows, and here-, what’s this?”

Mickey can’t help but grin at Ian, naked and unashamed as he pretends to notice the record player for the first time, making a show of crouching down and unclasping the top to open it and turn it on, the distinct sound of dust on the tracks filling their homely corner.

”Amazing,” he praises himself as he stands up, ”what a thoughtful guy!”

He points two finger guns at Mickey as the music blasts out, the track starting with a bang and a cry of ’help!’. Mickey groans when he immediately recognizes what it is, even though the record is new and he’s been locked up while the radio’s most likely been plaguing the country with their new singles.

Ian bobs his head along with the song, mumbling words when he can, while he bends over to rifle through Mickey’s t-shirt and digs out his battered pack of smokes.

”I need somebody,” he sings, ignoring Mickey’s silent suffering as he straightens up with a cigarette hanging off his lips, ”not just anybody, help! You know I need someone.”

”You _do_ need help,” Mickey mutters, but fuck it if he’s able to look away from the naked apparition above him, lighter sparking and smoke billowing around his face as he juts out his chin and smirks around the cigarette.

”Hum-hum,” he skirts over a couple of words, swaying from side to side and eyes on the ceiling, ”so much younger than today, I never needed anybody’s help in any way, yeah, uh-huh.”

”You’re ridiculous,” Mickey sighs, biting his lip over the sight and holding out two fingers in a silent request for Ian to share, ”c’mere.”

”Help me if you can,” Ian hums along with more confidence, getting down on his knees on the bed, ”I’m feeling down, and I do appreciate you being ’round.”

”Uh-huh,” Mickey scoffs and raises an eyebrow at him when Ian smiles and slumps down next to him.

 _”Help me get my feet back on the ground,”_ Lennon sings as Ian takes a deep drag off the cigarette and then holds it out for Mickey to take, blowing out smoke over their briefly touching hands, _”Won’t you please, please help me?”_

”Fucking Beatles,” Mickey mutters around the cigarette, tongue nudging at the slightly damp filter, ”can’t believe I let you fuck me.”

”Because I like Elvis, too,” Ian hums and takes the cigarette back when Mickey offers it to him, ”and because you like my dick.”

”You don’t know Elvis,” Mickey asserts, shaking his head, ”you don’t like Elvis.”

”Don’t like him?” Ian tuts and blows out a wobbly smoke ring. ”I’m practically datin’ him.”

Mickey’s ears burn as he pretends he didn’t hear that, whatever quick retort he might’ve had on hand stuck behind a dumb smile.

”Hm,” Ian sighs and holds out the cigarette again, blowing a thin string of smoke through the scattered ring, ”you got nicer legs though.”

”Shut up,” Mickey winces, staving off the laughter bubbling up his body.

”Thighs to die for,” Ian confirms.

Mickey shakes his head, and lets out a low chuckle.

”And you’re tougher,” Ian continues, affecting a dreamy tone.

Mickey decides to stop struggling, see if that helps. ”Uh-huh, sure.”

”And sweeter,” Ian says, not deterred at all, and Mickey can hear his smile before he glances sideways and sees it.

”Ey,” Mickey huffs and turns away to tap off some ash before he hands the cigarette back to his bedmate, ”save the flattery for your fucking girlfriend, Gallagher.”

Ian just takes the almost burnt out cigarette from him and says nothing, sucking the last bit of smoke out of it as he turns over the side of the bed to snuff it out against the dirty concrete floor.

”How can I even try,” he hums along with the new track playing, resting his hands down on his ribs and his eyes on the ceiling, ”I can never win.”

”How much have you listened to this damned record while I’ve been away?” Mickey complains, but smiles when Ian laughs and turns back on his side, hand on Mickey’s cheek guiding him to do the same.

Mickey follows, because oh God, he thinks he might follow Ian anywhere. It’s terrifying and makes his life a hundred times more difficult than he ever asked for, or expected.

”Love will find a way,” Ian hums with an almost embarrassed smile, ”gather round all you clowns, let me hear you say. Hey-”

Ian falls silent, even while the chorus kicks in, his smile quirking into something more sure and almost resigned as he nudges his face even closer and fills up Mickey’s whole world with only him.

_You've got to hide your love away. Hey, you've got to hide your love away_

”Broke up with Emily,” Ian blurts out, sighing when Mickey pulls back to give him an incredulous scowl.

”Fuck did you do that for?” he asks, hating the way fear and panic can eat its way into their bubble, even here. Ian doesn’t answer right away, instead he hides behind the blank-faced facade he almost never subjects Mickey to and shuffles himself over on his back, effectively breaking all their little points of contact.

”Didn’t wanna lie anymore,” he mutters, his pale eyelashes fluttering when he stares up at the ceiling and ignores Mickey’s desperate frown burning a hole into the side of his face.

”Ian, it’s lie or fucking die!” Mickey reminds him. ”My old man _will_ kill me if he finds out, yours gonna put you away, fucking neuter you or electrocute you, you know this!”

”Yeah, alright, I know,” Ian huffs, clearly not pleased with the turn of their conversation, ”not saying I wanna make a fucking announcement, I just… couldn’t do it anymore.”

”What?” Mickey asks, frustration only growing the more Ian seems to pull away. ”Lie? It’s not that hard, Ian, you just fucking do it.”

Ian sighs and rubs a hand roughly over his face.

”It’s not that,” he admits in a mutter, ”she wanted to get with me and I couldn’t do it.”

”Je-sus,” Mickey groans, shoving the side of his face into the mattress to hide his slight, involuntary smile, even though Ian isn’t looking, ”you’re unbelievable. Could’ve just thrown it in her, now she’s gonna tell everyone ’bout your queer dick.”

”Pretended it was ’cause of the alcohol,” Ian says, dropping his hand and stubbornly blinking up at the bare concrete ceiling, ”it’s not the first time, she’s tried to blow me before and it just wasn’t working.”

”You’re so stupid,” Mickey scolds him, but what he wants to do is reach out and touch him, kiss him, tell him it’s fine. It’s not fine, though. It’s so fucking far from fine Mickey feels like he’s standing on a ledge, and he would back the fuck up if it weren’t for this long rope coiling around their waists, binding them together.

”It’s fine,” Ian bites out, ”Rog thinks I dumped her to play the field, his opinion’s what matters to these people at the end of the day. The girls can gossip all they want.”

”You should do it,” Mickey tells him, not at all prepared for it when Ian turns his head and brings them face to face again, ”play the field, you just gotta do it, Ian. You been with this chick for two years, making out and pretending to be a fucking saint, waiting for marriage to stick it to her. This is real life, you just gotta learn how to do it.”

Ian frowns at him, his silence and his stern lips almost enough for Mickey to wanna take it all back.

”You want me fucking girls?” he asks, his voice challenging but his eyes wide and pleading.

Mickey wants to lie and tell him he doesn’t give a shit either way, but apparently it’s not as easy as he’s previously made out.

”Don’t want you getting hurt,” he says, his hand coming up to caress Ian’s strained neck and set jaw, fingertips brushing over his ugly bruise.

”What if I don’t wanna fuck anyone else?” Ian asks in a low mumble. ”What if I don’t wanna kiss anyone else?”

Mickey sighs and shakes his head, fingertips still carefully running along Ian’s jaw and up his cheek, thumb tracing the line under his eye. ”Get that shit out of your head, Ian.”

Ian stares at him for a long moment, brows furrowed and eyes steady, until suddenly he breaks out in a small smile.

”You like it,” he decides, smiling wider when Mickey winces at the idea, ”you’re pleased I don’t wanna get with anyone else.”

”Fuck no,” Mickey mutters, shaking his head even as Ian’s still smiling and nudging his face closer, the tips of their noses bumping.

”You’re pleased,” Ian insists, picking himself up a little so he can fit his lips to Mickey’s and kinda trap him between his delicious face and the soft mattress.

Mickey wants to protest, he really does, but the words get stuck somewhere on the way and instead he threads his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Ian’s neck and pulls him in deeper, dropping his jaw and tasting the bitter nicotine on Ian’s tongue.

”Mh,” Ian hums and smiles into the kiss, biting his lip and keeping it just out of Mickey’s reach, ”that noise.”

Mickey blinks his eyes open and frowns up at Ian’s blissed out face, pulling lightly at Ian’s hair when he nudges his nose into Mickey’s cheek and tries to go back down for more.

”The fuck?” Mickey asks, trying to ignore the feathery kisses Ian’s pressing in a line from the corner of his mouth to his dimple and back again.

”You make this great noise,” Ian explains when he’s back, hovering over Mickey’s face and letting out a wholly embarrassing moan, almost like a fucking whimper coming somewhere from the back of his throat, ”it’s amazing.”

”Fuck you, I don’t do that,” Mickey argues, dodging Ian’s lips when he tries to get back to business, ”don’t sound like a fucking chick like that.”

Ian laughs, his low chuckle hitting the side of Mickey’s mouth in a warm puff of air. ”Not like a chick, like _you_.”

”Fuck off,” Mickey huffs, ”never gonna make a sound like that again now, am I?”

”Uh-huh,” Ian grins and slots their lips back together, working Mickey open again and kissing away his last defense. He hears it himself this time, a soft sigh of a moan he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, a direct echo of the pleasure pooling deep inside his gut.

Ian laughs into the kiss but refuses to move too far away when Mickey covers his grinning face with his hands and tries to push him off. He’s not trying that hard though, and doesn’t struggle at all when Ian grabs his wrists one at a time and traps them against the mattress on either side of his head, draping himself over Mickey’s side and straddling his thigh.

”Feel that?” he mumbles against Mickey’s chin, kissing down his jaw and throat as he rubs his hard dick against Mickey’s thigh. ”One noise from you does more for me than her whole mouth.”

Mickey groans when Ian lets go of his wrists, putting one hand to the side of his face and sneaking the other down to flatten over Mickey’s matching erection.

”How can this be wrong?” he asks in ernest, staring into Mickey’s eyes and nervously wetting his lips, ”never felt more right, than when I’m with you.”

Mickey feels his mouth fall open, but his head is spinning and he’s got nothing he can say to that. He wants to argue, tell Ian to shut up with this stuff, he wants to repeat it, again and again until he’s admitted every hidden feeling for Ian he shouldn’t have. 

Ian smiles like he gets it, his fingers brushing gently over Mickey’s temple.

”You gonna run your mouth all day,” Mickey smirks and gets his hand in between them to run it along Ian’s dick and cup his balls, ”or you gonna put this thing to good use?”

 

***

 

It’s still light out when Ian wakes up, stomach growling. He should have brought something for them to eat, but that’d been the last thing on his mind when he saw Mickey on the street and knew he’d soon get to be with him like this again; naked and true, more true than Ian’s been with anyone else in his whole life. Even with Lip playing the part of both Irish twin and best friend, there’d always been something that held Ian back, ever content with acting second command to his more formidable brother. 

”Hm,” Ian grunts into his pillow, ”’m starving, could go down the corner shop and get something, an’ come back here.”

He doesn’t even realize that Mickey’s not still in bed with him until he turns around, throwing out an arm over nothing and blinking up at Mickey pulling on his jeans.

”Gotta go,” Mickey mutters around a freshly lit cigarette, smoke billowing out with his words.

Ian frowns and locks his hands together behind his head, studying his lover as he’s cringing on his t-shirt, cursing under his breath when he notices the small grass stains scattered all over it. Ian’d not had a plan, coming here, but he knows he’d hoped to get to at least stay the night with Mickey. They set this place up a few months before Mickey got himself locked up, as soon as the temperature allowed for them to stay in the abandoned building in various states of undress without getting frostbite, and now the whole summer got wasted on their forced separation. Ian’s been spending a lot of time here on his own, but that was never the point of this place. It’s theirs, it was supposed to be theirs. Maybe that was just something Ian’d been telling himself, falling head over heels in love with the enemy.

Maybe Mickey doesn’t feel the same way at all.

”Don’t go tonight,” Ian blurts out, surprising himself as much as he seems to surprise Mickey, who picks up his eyebrows and looks down at him as he’s balancing on one foot, pulling on one of his boots, ”I mean-”

”You telling me not to fight?” Mickey smirks, letting his foot drop when he’s managed to pull on his second boot and crossing his arms.

”No, I-,” Ian huffs and pulls his hands through his hair, and then abruptly sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the low bed, ”jesus, Mick, I just don’t want you gettin’ in trouble.”

Mickey scoffs and shakes his head, taking the cigarette from his lips to point it at Ian. ”What fucking world do you live in? If I don’t fight I got nothing.”

”You got _me_ ,” Ian tries, voice low, and winces when Mickey scoffs again, ”but I swear Mickey, won’t be around if you get yourself locked up for killing that piece of shit, it’ll be prison next time-, he’s not worth pissing away your life.”

”What life?” Mickey yells, taking a step back like his body recoils from his own violent outburst. ”I’m fucked whatever I do! Don’t got money, didn’t finish school-, all I got is this fucked up thing here with you and hey! Turns out it’s worth shit!”

”Mick,” Ian sighs and gets up, walking over to Mickey until he can touch his hands to his face and keep him close, even while Mickey’s trying to back away, ”didn’t mean it like that.”

”The fuck did you mean it like,” Mickey mutters and Ian can feel his quick pulse under his careful fingers as he folds his hands around the sides of his neck and touches their foreheads together.

”I love you,” Ian mutters, not daring to open his eyes to see Mickey’s reaction, ”don’t go tonight, please. It’s gonna end badly, one way or another, I’m gonna-, I can’t lose you.”

”Ian,” Mickey sighs and Ian knows he’s not gonna say it back, his heart breaking as he dips his head and feels Mickey’s stubble brush over the side of his forehead, ”this shit-, it’s all I know.”

”It doesn’t have to be,” Ian insists and hides his heartbreak behind his stubbornness when Mickey shakes his head and backs out of his grip, ”I got money, not yet but I will. My uncle left some for me, in a trust fund. I bet Frank will give it to me now if I give him a cut and move out. He hates me and I don’t doubt he’d jump at a chance to get rid of me _and_ make some cash.”

”Fuck, Ian,” Mickey screws his eyes shut before he looks at Ian again, the anger and frustration inside him giving way for something almost resigned, ”that shit’s for college, get your head outta your ass for a second and wake the fuck up, I’m not worth you fucking up your entire life, for what? What we’re doing ain’t right!”

”You don’t believe that,” Ian frowns, suddenly feeling his nakedness in the open space and next to Mickey’s dressed callousness, ”and fuck college, I’m an average student, an average outfielder, I never wanted that same shit as Lip and Fi, just wanna live true to myself. Right now that’s livin’ with you!”

”Do yourself a favor,” Mickey drawls, stepping further away from Ian, ”grow up.”

Mickey’s all the way down on the ground and halfway through the abandoned block when Ian catches up with him, shoes untied and his varsity jacket in his hands. He drops it on the ground in order to grab Mickey by the shoulder and turn him around.

”If you fight tonight I’m gonna be right there with you, you know I will,” Ian pants, grabbing Mickey’s face and keeping him close, ”Roger’s outta his fucking mind, he wants blood, he’s not gonna stop until you’re dead.”

”Good,” Mickey bites out, ”let him, this shit’s been going on for too fucking long, shoulda ended him after he fucked with Mandy. You think she’s the only one? Don’t fucking think so Gallagher, she’s just the only one who knows how to kick back and get away.”

”I know, Mick,” Ian whispers, his breathing still unsteady for every reason but running, ”I know… but it’s still not worth your life, please, you don’t gotta care for me but please-, don’t do this.”

Mickey stares at him, and Ian can see his resolve wavering.

”Midnight,” Ian mumbles, tilting Mickey’s face up close to his own, ”meet me at the place and I promise we can go away together, leave all this shit behind… just you and me, Mick, just you and me.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, but Ian thinks he can see him nod before he leaves him standing in the desolate courtyard alone.

 

****

 

Mickey likes to think he has a choice, but when he checks the time on his watch and walks faster in the wrong direction, he’s pretty sure there never was a universe where he would’ve chosen anything but Ian. He’s ten minutes late when he gets to the quiet street on which Ian and him usually meet up, cursing himself out internally as he’s hitching up the duffle bag on his shoulder and looks around for any kind of sign of Ian still being there.

He’s one more nervous spin away from running back where he came from, his pulse picking up when he thinks of Ian going to the brawl because he thinks Mickey’s gonna be there, when he spots a vaguely familiar car on the corner. The ruby red Ford Starliner is usually parked on Ian’s driveway, Mickey’s seen it sometimes when Ian’s snuck out at night for a smoke, the two of them huddling together behind the neighbor’s shed. 

Walking up to it he bends down to peer into the passenger seat, leaning down further to see the driver’s seat on the opposite side. Ian’s got his hand over his eyes, his face shielded by the dark interior of the car, the dim streetlights outside only barely catching the wetness on his cheeks. Mickey pulls the door open and climbs inside without warning, Ian not bothering to wipe his face before he looks up at him in surprise.

”Mick,” he chokes and grabs on to his face when Mickey leans over the stick and kisses him, tasting his salty tears on his lips.

”Fuck did you do?” Mickey asks, breaking the kiss only to dive back in for a quick peck. ”Why’d you got your dad’s car?”

Ian gives him a quick grin, wiping his hands over his cheeks and pushing Mickey back enough to reach behind the seats, pulling out a bag and placing it between them. Mickey hesitates for a moment but unzips it when Ian nods at him.

It’s dark in the car, but Mickey’s eyes are getting used to it and the yellow light from the street hits the bag just right when he gets it open. It’s mostly full of Ian’s clothes, but perched on top of a wrinkly dress shirt lies a shined up Smith & Wesson and a stack of strapped 100 dollar bills.

”Frank laughed at my offer,” Ian admits, giving him a crooked smile when Mickey looks up at him, ”so I broke into his safe and stole his car.”

”Ian,” Mickey whispers and shakes his head, ”what did you do?”

Ian scoffs. ”Mick, come on, this isn’t even a third of what’s in my trust fund, he’ll get it back and more once the state decides I’m most likely dead. We’ll ditch the car by the tracks and jump a train, no sweat.”

”Shit,” Mickey breathes out and touches a hand to the money, ten thousand dollars. He’s never dreamed of even laying eyes on that much cash.

”It’s just enough for a house somewhere,” Ian goes on, ”we can go somewhere far away, find jobs, be free.”

Mickey shakes his head and looks up in time to see Ian’s face fall. He takes it in his hands and wills his voice to be steady.

”This is not a game,” he says, ”between the money and the car you’ll do serious time if they catch us. You can’t do this, alright? You need to take all this shit back before Frank sees it’s gone and calls the cops on you.”

”But you came,” Ian protests, brows furrowing in confusion, ”you’re here, let’s just get the fuck outta here.”

”Ian,” Mickey says, drawing in a shaky breath and looking at Ian’s confused face in the dark, living so long on the ideas of unspoken things and never pushing Mickey to step up, even when he probably should have, ”I love you.”

Ian purses his lips together, eyes widening as they flit between Mickey’s like he’s still looking for some kinda hidden meaning.

”I’ll go with you to the end of the fucking universe,” Mickey huffs, wincing at himself when a stunned smile spreads across Ian’s face, like a sunrise, ”but I’d rather be dirt poor than make you a criminal, don’t want that shit for you, you don’t need to do this.”

”I’ve been working in the shop all summer,” Ian says with a frown, looking like he’s reworking his plans, ”we could survive on my last paycheck long enough to find some work, maybe.”

”Yeah, yeah,” Mickey agrees, closing the bag back up before he looks at Ian again, ”shit-, let’s do that.”

Ian smiles, that crooked sideways smile that makes him look fucking fifteen again, when Mickey first saw him standing a step behind his insufferable brother, a concerned frown crowning his freckled forehead as greasers and socs were revving up for a fight around him. Mickey’d seen him and for a second he’d wished things were different. He hadn’t known where that thought would end up landing him.

In a car with Ian fucking Gallagher, grown the fuck up and laying his every dime down with his whole future at Mickey’s feet, suggesting they’ve got something better waiting for them. No one’s ever told Mickey he could do better, better than violence or better than prison, but here he is. Choosing love and choosing freedom. Ian tastes like home when they crash together in a hungry kiss, full of hope and nerves and feeling.

Their whole world crashes in when the windshield breaks into a million pieces, raining down on top of them as Ian wraps his arms around their heads in an instinctual need to shield them from the blast. They sit still for a second while the glass settles, Ian breathing harshly against Mickey’s neck and his hands slowly starting to feel him out, like he’s checking for damage.

”You okay?” he whispers before the door is pulled open behind Mickey and someone’s got him by the collar, dragging him out of the car and down on the glass-covered asphalt.

Mickey hits his head on the hard ground, cursing and feeling it out to check for bleeding as he tries to scuffle back and get on his feet. He should’ve known who it was the second the window caved in, but it’s still a shock when he looks up to see Roger standing above him with a baseball bat hanging from his right hand, trailing through the broken glass when he moves closer and swings it, hitting Mickey square in the ribs and punching the air right out of his lungs.

Mickey curls up and chips for breath, vaguely registering the bat dropping to the ground by his head. He struggles and kicks when Roger grabs him by his jacket and lifts him from the ground like he’s made of paper, one hand over his neck as he pushes him back until he slams into a brick wall, clawing at the hand around his throat.

Mickey’s lungs are burning and his eyes are going out when he sees the glint of a knife in Roger’s hand, and the pure hate in his eyes. Mickey doesn’t feel like he’s been stabbed, but suddenly he can breathe again and there’s blood everywhere, soaking his white t-shirt and the lining of his leather jacket. It’s not until Roger slumps over on the ground that he sees the hole in the side of his head.

Ian’s still pointing the gun at his fallen target when Mickey looks at him, and he’s wide-eyed and white as a sheet, but his hand is steady and his stance just right, like they’ve been practicing for fun with some of Terry’s handguns in their abandoned building. Mickey would be proud if Ian hadn’t just killed a man for him. Ian’s not a killer, he’s not built for it. It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

Mickey pushes off the wall and sidesteps Roger’s still body, walking over to Ian in an arch, staying out of his direct sights and coming up by his side, putting a bloodied hand to Ian’s, still holding out the gun.

”It’s okay,” Mickey tries to sound convincing, but his voice comes out in a hoarse whisper, ”Ian, give me the gun.”

Ian loosens his grip when Mickey puts his hand over the gun, taking it from him.

”Listen,” Mickey says, massaging his throat and slowly regaining his voice, ”we need to get out of here now, you trust me?”

Ian pulls in a sudden breath, then he blinks over at Mickey and eyes on his bloodied t-shirt he nods his head.

”Wait here,” Mickey tells him and hurries over to the car, leaning in the still open door to brush broken glass off their bags and pull them out. He risks a minute to take off his soaked jacket and t-shirt, putting on the only other shirt he’s packed for their new life and shoving all of his other stuff down Ian’s bag so he can stuff his own with the blood-soaked clothes and the gun, wiping it down with the relatively clean back of the ruined t-shirt before he zips the bag up and takes them both over to Ian.

”Let’s go,” he mutters and hitches one of the bags up on his shoulder so he can take Ian by the arm and lead him into a brisk escape. He lets Ian set the pace for a minute, before he thinks he can hear sirens somewhere and forces him to run for a while. Ian is a better runner than him anyway, and once he gets going Mickey’s got a hard time keeping up.

They run through the empty, dark streets, Mickey occasionally pointing the way but mostly keeping to himself, letting Ian just run for now. He drops the gun down a sewer and the bag full of his bloodied clothes into a burning trashcan fire keeping some bums warm in an alley. They stop running when Mickey feels like his bruised ribs are cutting into his lungs, and walk until they reach the tracks.

They jump a freight train heading west, curling up between two crates to escape the biting wind flowing through the open cart, Mickey holding on to Ian until his breathing evens out and he falls asleep.

Mickey doesn’t sleep, he sees Ian’s wide eyes and pale face, still holding the gun. He knows Ian is strong, and much tougher than he looks, but Mickey never wanted him to know this life. Not like this.

 

*****

 

Ian thinks it must be morning already when Mickey shakes him awake to a reddened sky, but Mickey tells him he’s been asleep all day, too, and the sun is going down again. The train is moving a lot slower now so Mickey says they should jump off and see where they are, maybe find somewhere to sleep and see about a new mode of transportation in the morning. Ian trails after Mickey through the wide field, holding out a hand and letting the waist high barley gently caress his numb palm.

He only looks up when Mickey picks up his step and moves them towards a lone house up on a hill, in the middle of the field. There are no lights on in any of the windows and the garage is empty, so Mickey picks the lock and they go inside. Mickey sits him down on a couch in a cosy but cold living room, in front of a dark fireplace. Ian sits there and silently observes as Mickey fiddles with the kindle and eventually gets a fire going, cursing up a storm in the process, probably mostly for show.

He stares at the yellow flames licking the wood and sparking up the chimney, the warmth slowly working its way through his cold skin to his chilled bones. He pulls the blanket draped over his shoulders more firmly around himself and slumps down on the couch, kicking off his shoes when he realizes how sore his feet are.

Mickey finds some canned soup that he heats up on the stove and brings out to Ian, very carefully not watching him when Ian holds the steaming cup of corn chowder to his face but doesn’t drink it. He doesn’t immediately protest when Ian puts their cans aside and pulls him down on the floor and gets his hand down his pants.

”Ian,” Mickey whispers, his breath hitching as his cock gets a squeeze, ”don’t gotta do this.”

”Please,” Ian thinks he might be crying, something wet rolling down his temples as he lies down on the carpet and blinks up at the blurred ceiling, ”don’t wanna think anymore, don’t wanna feel-, please.”

Mickey likes to claim he could just find a chick to bang if he wanted to stick his dick in someone, whenever Ian teases him about his eagerness to be the one taking it, and Ian usually drops it since he prefers the way they usually do it anyway. But sometimes they switch it up, for fun or convenience or because Mickey’s ass needs a rest, and this time Mickey immediately gets with the program when Ian pulls his pants down just enough to hold his legs up and expose his ass, lying back and taking it when Mickey works him open and slicks himself up with spit before he stuffs himself inside, clamping Ian’s legs between their bodies and hovering his face over Ian’s the entire time, pushing into him until he stops crying and his senses are overcome with the feeling of Mickey nudging that spot inside him in slow, measured thrusts.

Mickey’s kissing him when Ian comes, his dick throbbing and spilling between them from just the rough friction of their clothed bodies and the persistent press inside him, sending waves of pleasure through him. He doesn’t know if Mickey’s done yet when he pulls out anyway and curls up behind Ian, arranging him to lie on his side and face the fireplace. 

He’s still got Mickey’s arm around him when he wakes up in the morning, feeling ten years older than two days ago.

 

******

 

Mickey wakes up alone and he’s freaking the fuck out until he hears running water. He’d washed himself off yesterday, stealing a pair of surprisingly comfortable pajama bottoms from a wardrobe upstairs and washing out some of the worst of the bloodstains dried into his black jeans and hanging them out to dry. If Ian’s taking a shower this morning, it’s a very good sign. Mickey stretches out his stale limbs and gets off the floor, shivering against the morning cold and throwing a couple of logs on the dying embers embedded in last night’s ash.

He’s in the kitchen, figuring out the stove so he can cook the eggs and bacon he’s found at the back of the fridge when Ian comes in behind him, hair still wet and his skin cold when he comes in close and presses a quick kiss to Mickey’s lips.

Mickey runs the tip of his tongue over his tingling bottom lip and shoots Ian a quick smile, one he’s happy to see returned.

”Cold shower?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

”No hot water,” Ian shrugs, ignoring Mickey’s unnecessary innuendo, ”guess there’s a heater somewhere but-”

He shrugs again, obviously fine with it. Mickey thinks he might go looking for it after breakfast, because he sure as shit ain’t gonna shower like some hobo, not in a nice house like this.

Mickey piles up his badly scrambled eggs on two plates and starts frying the bacon, feeling Ian’s eyes on the side of his face the entire time, leaning against the side of the fridge next to him.

”I should go back,” he says as Mickey’s turning the bacon over.

”Shut the fuck up,” Mickey mutters and hopes that could be the end of that, but of course not.

”I shot him,” Ian says, like Mickey doesn’t know, ”it was-, it was self defense.”

”Yeah,” Mickey says, raising his eyebrows and staring at Ian, ”yeah, it was, they still gonna get you for manslaughter though, especially if you try explaining to ’em why it was fucking self defense. Prison for sure, if you’re fucking lucky. You’re not going back.”

”But-, Mick,” Ian starts, folding his arms across his chest and obviously annoyed at Mickey for not thinking he’s being reasonable, ”they’re gonna think you did it.”

”So?”

”So,” Ian huffs, leaning forward a little to try and catch Mickey’s eye, Mickey can see it in his periphery when he keeps his focus where it belongs; on their breakfast, ”you didn’t do it. But you’ve got a record and everyone knows how things were between you and Rog, about the rumble. They might be coming after us ’cause they think you’ve kidnapped me.”

”So?” Mickey reiterates, stepping to the side to hold the skillet over their plates and push the bacon onto them, grease and all.

”I’m serious,” Ian sounds desperate, ”I can’t let them think that about you, you didn’t do anything wrong!”

Mickey turns off the gas and sets down the skillet on the cold stove, stepping up to Ian and holding up his hands in a kind of shrug, or a general sign of surrender, before he moves closer and cups them over Ian’s almost scruffy cheeks, trailing them down to his neck.

”Who cares what they think, huh?” he says, smiling a little when Ian shakes his head and his mouth falls open as though to protest. ”Was gonna go with you anyway, Ian, nothing’s changed. We find somewhere, we live a quiet life. If they find us, we run again. I’m not worried.”

He slaps Ian playfully on the cheek, snapping his fingers and pointing at Ian when he flashes Mickey a quick grin and rolls his eyes.

”You and me,” Mickey reminds him, ”that’s what you said.”

”Yeah,” Ian mumbles, resting the back of his head against the fridge and watching Mickey through half lidded eyes, ”that’s what I said.”

Mickey takes the plates with him out on the back porch, sitting down on the wooden steps and looking out over the mist-clad field, stretching out endlessly into the dusty dawn. Ian comes out after a couple of minutes with two cups of steaming coffee, muttering something about sugar when he hands one over to Mickey and sits down. Mickey glances over his shoulder when he hears something behind him, only to notice that Ian’s left the door open and must have found a record player inside, the volume loud enough to flow through the house and reach them on the porch.

He sips his coffee and enjoys the simple fact that Ian’s eating and talking again, even able to squeeze out a smile or two, listening to the hauntingly beautiful voice singing to them about love.

_Every minute, every hour, every day_  
_Oh, I’m hoping to discover_  
_A certain kind of lover_  
_Who will show me the way_

”This is good,” Ian mumbles, his plate cleared and his coffee mug in his hands when Mickey glances his way, ”could stay here.”

Mickey’s thinking about kissing him when Ian suddenly sits up a little straighter, his calm face drawing into a frown as he stares into the distance. Mickey follows his line of sight and curses under his breath when he sees the dust trailing up through the field. The car is still too far away for them to see it, but there’s only one house on this hill and one dirt road that they know of, leading up to it.

They leave their dirty dishes out back and scramble inside, Mickey managing to remember his pants still hanging off the railing before they run through the house, collecting their precious few possessions. Mickey throws water on the fireplace as Ian’s stuffing things into their bag, and because he thinks it might give them a few extra minutes, Mickey turns off the record player too, making the house look untouched at first and maybe second glance. It’s stupid, but while he’s there he grabs the single off the turntable and slips it into its sleeve, ignoring Ian’s amused look when he shoves it down the bag with the rest and they hightail out the back, keeping low for a while through the barley until the car disappears around the hill and they take off running. 

Mickey is sore all over, his ribs most likely bruised and his head banged up if not mildly concussed. But he’s dealt with that stuff before, and right now he’s running through a misty field with what’s gonna turn out to be the love of his life, and he feels free. He laughs, and Ian’s grin is wild and never-ending next to him.

 

*******

 

Gillette, Wyoming, 1975.  
End of summer.

 

Ian readjusts the grip he’s got on the flat package carefully clutched under his arm, and removes the cigarette from his lips to blow out a slow puff of smoke, spying through it down the sleepy street.

The cafe’s bell jingles when the door opens and Macy steps out next to him, smiling sweetly as she unties the apron off her pink waitress uniform and folds it away into her bag.

”Headin’ home, Ian?” she asks, squinting up at him and the low sun behind him.

”Yeah,” he says and nods, ”gonna have a real lazy weekend.”

”Oh, that’s nice,” she says with another friendly smile, sometimes Ian thinks she might be flirting with him, but he doesn’t really mind, he’s pretty sure he’s made it clear he’s not interested in that stuff, ”whereabouts do you live, again?”

”You know the fields off Route 59?” he asks and grins when she smiles, putting the cigarette back to his lips and speaking around it. ”Yeah, another mile towards nowhere and that’s me.”

”Sounds lonely,” Macy commiserates.

”Nah,” he says with a shrug, ”it’s good.”

”Oh,” she says and tries for another smile, obviously a little thrown by his answers but not finding any direct issues with them either.

Ian grins and flicks his half-burnt cigarette away when a dusty pickup truck turns in on the street and closes in on them.

”That’s my ride,” he says as the pickup pulls up to the curb and stops in front of them, deciding to ignore the way Macy leans forward a little and frowns, probably only seeing a pair of tattooed hands on the steering wheel from her angle. 

”See you Monday, Ian,” she calls out after him and he raises his hand at her in a quick wave over his shoulder as he pulls open the passenger door and climbs inside.

”Hey,” Mickey greets him with this oddly proud smirk he’s always got when their shifts line up and they get to carpool.

”Hey,” Ian echoes, and grins at the way he still sounds like a lovesick fool when Mickey looks at him like that.

”Ready?” Mickey shifts gear and raises an eyebrow at him.

”Let’s ride,” Ian hums, sitting back as Mickey steps on the gas and drives.

There’s a rest stop on Route 59, right outside Gillette, where Mickey always pulls up and cuts the engine, like a ritual. They’ve been sitting in silence as they’ve been driving through town, Mickey’s eyes on the road and Ian’s on Mickey, but right outside the city border, that’s where they stop for a minute and then start their real life. Together.

Ian leans over the gearbox to meet Mickey halfway, his lips chapped and soft at the same time, the press of his mouth and quick swipe of his tongue like coming home. They’ve lived outside Gillette for a decade now, but Ian thinks he’ll always be home as long as he has this, even if they one day will have to run and start over.

”Hey,” Mickey says when he pulls back just a little, stuck within Ian’s immediate closeness.

”Hey,” Ian huffs and smiles, kissing Mickey one more time before sitting back again. 

”What’s that?” Mickey asks as he starts the engine again and drives back out on the road, eying the package on Ian’s lap.

”Lip,” Ian says and holds it up, turning it over, ”checked the post box on my lunch hour.”

”Sweet,” Mickey hums and taps at the wheel with his fingertips, ”let’s give it a spin when we get home.”

Gillette is what it is, it’s small and culturally frustrating but it has also had a population boom the last ten years on account of the oil, that has made it easy for Ian and Mickey to settle in here without too many watchful eyes on them. They’d been there for a couple of years when they decided to risk contacting Lip. He was still at university and fairly easy to locate, and one long distance phone call was enough to establish a routine of communication. Sometimes it’s letters, but mostly Lip sends them records fresh from the presses and off the shelves in Chicago, months before they usually reach Gillette, if they ever do at all.

Their lives would’ve been all honky-tonk if it hadn’t been for Lip, bless him.

”Jonas might be stepping down next year,” Ian says, smiling when Mickey grumbles in response.

”Isn’t that what the old bastard said last year?” he points out.

”Yeah,” Ian admits, ”but now there’s the gout, too, and he’s really sounding serious about it this time. He’s been talking to me about taking over as manager.”

”Well, that’s good news,” Mickey hums, ”’bout fucking time, too, you’re managing more than cooking already from what I’ve heard.”

”’Cause you’ve got such an unbiased source of information,” Ian chuckles and looks out over the windswept fields they turn into when Mickey finds the right narrow dirt road.

”You don’t know my sources,” Mickey insists with a cryptic shrug.

”Anyway,” Ian hums, bracing for the conversation to most likely have a change of tone, ”I’ve got some half-baked plans to up the place a little and there will be positions opening up, mine in the kitchen if nothing else.”

”I’m good,” Mickey sighs because this is not the first time Ian’s tried this. At least he doesn’t sound angry about it anymore, maybe he’s warming up to the idea.

”Okay,” Ian quickly decides, reminding himself that taking a step back always works better with Mickey than pushing too much, holding up his hand and smirking when Mickey throws him a look that says he knows this won’t be the last of this particular conversation, ”you think about it, I’ll bring it up again when I know what’s happening.”

”Ian,” Mickey huffs as he turns in on the gravel spot outside their house, small and lonely in the middle of the vast field, next to an old oak twice the height of the two-story house, ”we’re not gonna work together in that tiny cafe.”

”Why not?” Ian honestly wants to know as he opens the door and climbs out.

Mickey shuts his door and they look at each other over the roof of the pickup. Mickey sighing and then surrendering to a fond smirk.

”Don’t gotta work with me,” Ian promises, ”but please start lookin’ for something else? I never liked having you out on that drill and with the accident last month-, there’s no reason anymore for you to do hard labour like that. We’re good, we can survive on my salary for a while if you need time to find something else, I wouldn’t mind it if you quit today.”

”You done?” Mickey asks, eyebrows raised.

”Yeah,” Ian huffs, folding his arms over the car’s dirty roof.

”Good,” Mickey says and throws out his hands, ”I’ll think about it, alright? I promise you I’ll think about it.”

Ian smiles and watches Mickey happily as he rolls his eyes and walks towards the house.

”You locked Lou out again,” Mickey changes the subject by deciding to accuse Ian first thing as Ian steps up after him on the front porch, the sturdy structure stretching all the way around the house. Ian scoffs and eyes the surly ginger cat in Mickey’s arms.

”The damned thing’s here to catch rats, Mick,” he reminds his softhearted ex-greaser boyfriend and reaches out a tentative hand to scratch the scrappy thing behind the ear, changing his mind when Lou looks like she wants to eat him, ”not lounge inside all day gettin’ fat on cat food.”

”She’d like you better if you didn’t piss her off all the time,” Mickey ignores Ian’s very excellent points of argument and lets the cat jump to the floor and dash off towards the kitchen as they step inside, Ian unlocking the door and closing it again behind them.

”Don’t think so,” Ian mutters and heads straight for the record player, removing the Etta James single they still can’t help playing almost every day, and replacing it with the album he pulls out of Lip’s package, ”damn cat’s out to steal my boyfriend, just know it.”

Mickey opens up windows on both sides of the house to air it out as Ian changes speed on the turntable and placing the needle at the start turns up the volume and steps back. Nodding when the first notes of a song come out sounding right, he follows Mickey outside to sit down on the old hammock that came with the house, tapping his hand on his thigh along with the rhythm as Mickey lights up next to him and the new, exciting music flows out the window.

_Loving you is some kind of wonderful_  
_Because you show me just how much you care_  
_You've given me the thrill of a lifetime_  
_And made me believe you've got more thrills to spare, oh_

 

This will be an everlasting love.

 

 

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Merry [The Violet Jones](http://thevioletjones.tumblr.com/)! I hope this was alright, I had a lot of fun writing it and it got a bit out of hand, which is why I'm posting it so late! It's hopefully still the 23rd somewhere in the world, because maybe perhaps it's been the 24th here for the last five and a half hours whoops. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! And thanks to [Gallavichthings](http://gallavichthings.tumblr.com/) for organising the gift exchange : )
> 
> ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤
> 
> [Help!](https://youtu.be/sdeMkRCsbN0), [You've Got to Hide Your Love Away](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iF-jygopSuQ), [A Sunday Kind of Love](https://youtu.be/TjiBj014t7g), and [This Will Be (An Everlasting Love)](https://youtu.be/lswB6q2t_6c).


End file.
